


The Deal

by AeeDee



Category: Tron: Legacy (2010)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Mind Control, Non-Consensual, Situational Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 02:23:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeeDee/pseuds/AeeDee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fill from the <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/tronkinkmeme/">Tron kink meme</a>, asking for "Clu reprograms Sam".</p><p>Admittedly, this one bends the 'rules of the universe'. If you're a stickler for that, this probably isn't your cup of tea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Deal

“What makes a man who he is?” the man circles around him, studying the boy for a reaction to his question, “Is it his purpose, or something.. greater?”

“What are you talking about, Clu-” he frowns, agitated. He tugs at the restraints on his hands, to no avail; they won’t budge.

“Am I whole?” he gives him a sharp look, as he tilts his head for emphasis. “Am I complete, Sam?”

“You’re just a copy-” he growls, face distorted in disgust. His anger has begun to boil to the surface.

But Clu takes it in stride, “I envy you, User. You have a soul I’ve never had.” He lifts a disc off the table, studying the glowing light with an expression of calm, his voice a deceiving monotone, “It’ll be a shame to lose that spirit of yours.”

“What?”

“When I reprogrammed Tron, it was a simple procedure. It was all a matter of converting one program function to another. But for a User, it appears I’ll have to do this myself.” And with a slight smile, “I’ll try my best to be gentle.”

“Clu, you bastard-” but he has no idea what he’s in for. He just knows it sounds bad, and he has yet to find a way out of this mess.

“But you won’t remember your hatred for me, if it’s any consolation.” He moves in closer, raising a gloved hand to the boy’s face and tracing its curve with his fingers, “But I will miss your passion.”

“Clu?” he asks, his eyes widening. As the man backs away ominously, carrying that disc like it was something precious. “Clu?” he calls after him for anything, a clarification, to buy some time. “Clu, hold on a second-”

But Clu’s already gone. For now.

Sam dreads the moment, but he knows he’ll come back.

But as an upside, Clu’s sudden departure buys him some time to figure out a way to escape.

-

Except he doesn’t.

He can’t. Mission failed. When Clu returns Sam is in the exact same place he was, his will broken by a few minutes of excruciating hopelessness and disappointment. He still doesn’t know what he’s in for, but he knows he had his chance and lost it. He was left to his own devices, thoughts and ideas for those golden minutes, and they failed him. No, he failed himself.

Maybe this is what he deserved, coming out here on his own. He should have told Quorra he was leaving. He should have-

Footsteps, as he can hear the man approaching him, from behind where he can’t easily see his movements. He tries to turn his head to look back, but instantly he feels a hand against it, grabbing hold at the base of his neck to hold him there; firm but not painful, just enough pressure to keep him still.

“Clu,” he tries one last time, hoping this program has some trace of sympathy—or as it stands, any weakness in his resolve—in his code somewhere, “Why don’t we talk this out. Don’t you think-” he flinches as he feels his disc locked back in place, as the sudden movement sends an incomprehensible spark through his body, “you’re going a tad overboard?”

“I am doing what’s necessary, Sam,” the man’s voice is unsettlingly familiar, when he talks on a more soft-spoken tone. Just like his father, almost as if he were trying to be kind. But this- This is the exact opposite. There can’t be any good intentions hidden in this. “Now try to relax.”

 _Relax?_ Sam wants to laugh. How in the world was he supposed to-

A spike of electricity started to travel through him. It started at his feet, crawling up from his toes, tickling inside his legs, rummaging through his stomach and it intensified as it reached his face, and continued spreading. He was grinding his teeth to dull the shaking, shivering, sharp bristling of pain. And the longer that sensation continued, the stronger it felt, as he could gradually feel more nerves in his body coming alive as if for the first time. He felt things he’d never felt, felt sensations from places he hadn’t realized could respond to touch. Touch from what; it didn’t matter-

He had to struggle to keep his eyes open, because his vision was impaired; distorted somehow. His brain was overloaded with different light patterns, wavelengths as if from disorganized signals, faint images superimposed over his view. No matter where he looked, he couldn’t escape the moving pictures, the colors, the patterns that overlapped each other and became a disorienting blur of shapes and light trails that made him dizzy.

And when that electric pain began to crawl to the back of his tongue and continue toward his brain, the images slowed—for a brief moment, a flash in time—for long enough for him to capture a faint image, a single picture he could see clearly.

A young boy, standing next to a man on the beach, holding his hand and looking up-

Him and his father.

“Clu, wait-” he wanted to say it, but the words didn’t come out. His voice was rendered defunct, as the muscles refused to function. He couldn’t coordinate them well enough to speak at all, not a single word.

And the images would speed up and slow down. He’d catch fragments, once he realized what he should be looking for. A motorcycle parked outside his apartment. A figurine from a shelf in his childhood bedroom. His grandparents’ faces, as they all sat together at the dinner table. Quorra’s face-

“Wait,” when he finally manages the sound, his voice is broken and clumsy.

“No.” is the man’s cold response.

Another spark of pain, this one more intense before; it hits him like a blow to the head, as the world flashes white; he can see nothing but that sensation, his head a dizzy, noisy room full of static.

And in that space, time seems to slow; he’s aware of his body breathing, of each small sensation that comes and goes, of every nerve twitching in its appropriate rhythm, every muscle on his body that contracts, his thought that, in a crawl, passes through that tunnel of nerves and signals and mass of space. Physically, he’s aware of his eyes twitching; his mouth forming a grimace, his face muscles stressed and tense. But he knows he has no control over what he’s doing, because control is a concept that’s too disconnected, like the abstract idea of trying to speak.

He hears a voice, as if it’s coming from outside, someplace far away, “A little something to dull the pain.”

And he feels a touch, although at first he can’t tell what it is. A hot sensation, that causes his blood to rush, away from his head for just enough time to clear his mind a little. But he can’t relax, because even that rush is a part of the system, and that system is buzzing and glitching up and being deconstructed as if by God. He has no control. When he recognizes the fact that the contact is originating over his groin, and that there are fingers pressing firmly against his penis, he has no control. He can’t move to fight it off, because movement involves awareness and motor skills he lacks in this state. He’s lost too far inside his own mind, in that empty, vast space that’s filled with white air and little else but confusion and disorderly impulses and distant trails of light that vanish beyond the frame of a perceivable horizon.

And that touch begins to send a murmur throughout his body, a massaging motion that sends a series of waves through him, each one defined. He feels that touch as it ripples through every nerve, feels it travel and spread, feels the warmth of the area as the energy collides, and multiples, and builds.

He can hear himself gasp, disconnected like it’s someone else’s voice echoing inside his head.  
When the pleasure begins, he doesn’t want to fight it. He’s starting to forget what’s happening in the world outside. He’s starting to forget that he’s been abducted, and that he’s being molested against his will. He’s forgetting about the point of this mission, and his intrusion into the Grid, and the journey to save his father, and Quorra-

For now, there’s only pleasure. It begins with those indiscriminate waves and starts to define itself in signals that feel like fire. It burns through him, as he feels his muscles tensing up, and his body arching, moving without being instructed to do so. Movement as a basic instinct, his eyes are rolling back, his head is tilting, his legs are spreading themselves inappropriately and there’s a word on the edge of his tongue but his lips can’t coordinate to form it.

That touch increases into a definite stroke, up and down, up and down, each stroke harder than the one before it. That fire starts to ache, those signals become confused and chaotic, and the pressure builds. Muscles are twitching deep inside his body, nerves are on the verge of committing suicide and he can feel something building, assembling, traveling, something warm and fluid, something his body creates of its own will. It’s as natural as it is mystifying, and he can even feel his dick moving itself, swelling, growing and throbbing with its own heartbeat, the pulse of blood rushing through to the very tip.

He can hear his voice again, a sound like an, “Ah,” a clumsy whine. And that sound repeats, as somehow he’s panting, those _Ahs_ over and over, louder and faster as the blood rushes, the pressure builds, the heat rises to a feverish level and he’s on fire, _God_ he’s on fire, his legs shaking, his body twitching, his dick swelling and aching, a pleasure that’s becoming so hot it’s turned into pain, an indescribably concentrated, chaotic pain that makes him want to scream and moan at the same time.

And when he comes, the shaking slows. The twitching stops. His vision starts to clear. And in place of that hot, so _goddamn_ painful intensity is a warm, slow relaxation, like the emptying of an overheated kettle. He feels that warmth spread through him, touching him, soothing him. The nerves settle. His pulse slows to a crawl. His breathing stabilizes. He’s aware of the sensation of warm, thick semen that’s dripping and spreading between his inner thighs but he doesn’t feel offended or excited. He only accepts it as a necessary by-product of the event, no- the _experience_ that just occurred.

And as he can finally see a clear view of the world again, he stares into that dark room with a sense of calm. He even leans up to get a better look, disregarding the final touches of Clu’s fingers before he pulls his hand away. Sam blinks one time, and looks to his right, to see Clu standing beside him, staring down as if with a quiet curiosity.

Sam has a faint recollection of that face, but the attached file is corrupted. He frowns a little, as if uncertain. “Dad?”

Clu puts a hand on his shoulder, “I’m here, Sam.”

“Sam,” he says to himself, turning back to stare into the vast darkness, the edges of the walls lined with trails of orange light.

-

The crowd thunders, and roars. Their leader steps down from his podium, as he vanishes behind a mass of uniformed bodyguards. Bright lights flood the auditorium, as the glass stage begins to assemble, transparent boxes scrolling down from the ceiling. Anticipation builds, and the noise rises as, overhead, the title banner begins to display the names of the contestants joining the battle.

And one segment of that title banner reads: “[Sam Flynn]”.

Clu arrives inside his office, glancing out through the wall of glass that overlooks the stage. He gestures to his assistant Jarvis, instructing the man, “Identify him.”

And as he configures the screen on his tablet, sorting through names, a profile appears.

A picture of the young man’s face, and a description that read, “Sam Flynn: Program.”

-

She ran as fast as he legs could carry her. She climbed the side of a building, jumped down from the roof, navigated through a group of suspicious guards and slid her way between two closing doors. She snuck her way down a hallway, and when she stumbled upon the unassuming man dressed in a black robe, she hesitantly addressed him, “I’ve found him.”

The man looks up, his aged face weary and tired, but with a faint trace of hope. “Is it bad?” he casually asks.

She doesn’t respond right away. Instead she bows her head, and murmurs, “Clu has him.”

But the man puts a calm hand on her shoulder; he doesn’t want details, because he lacks the time it would take to let anxiety or worry get the best of him. He has to remain optimistic, at least for the time being. Because if he loses his resolve or his hope, if he loses his son in this struggle, the despair would consume him.

“Then let’s get him back, girl.”

-

He was feeling a rush, a uniquely different one this time. He held the disc in his hand, steadying himself to dive in again. But his target was swift, and agile; he was having a difficult time catching up to her. It gave him a thrill, even if he didn’t completely understand why.

He turned, and threw a disc, moving back quickly as he watched her dive away, his heart-rate spiking as he watched her move. So precise, so perfect. There was something serene in her movements, something that pleased him on an ephemeral level.

And she was coming back. She jumped forward, and threw a disc towards him; he dodged just in time, catching a glimpse of it as it flew past his shoulder. But he wondered why she didn’t aim higher. She seemed to have the skill. But that was no matter…

He ran forward, jumping up to throw the disc again, this time at a better angle. But just like before, before it reached her she moved, spinning elegantly to the side and landing on all fours to break her fall, as the walls rotate and shift, the gravity shifting to another plane.

Instead of falling, he jumps into it, allowing his weight to shift and he lands squarely on his feet, rising as the new floor ceases to turn. But she’s not as quick to recuperate; and when she stands, he’s on her.

He pounces on her like an animal, struggling with her flailing hands and arms to pin her down. It’s exciting; God it excites him. The rush, the frenzy, the energy between them sparking and driving him mad, like he was made to do this, and this alone. And when he pins her down, he’s sure he’s panting, from some mixture of pleasure and momentary exhaustion; his voice a deep growl rumbling through his mask as he stares her down, the reflection of her tense, frightened face painted on the black glass.

He lifts a disc, and raises it above her, holding her firmly in place with a strong arm against her shoulder.

An interruption that makes him pause; an uncharacteristic behavior, as her voice turns soft, and her eyes grow wide, “Sam?” She starts to shake, her trembling, “Please-”

But he raises an arm, and starts to swing his hand down to strike her with the disc, when-

Out of nowhere, a disc collides with his own. He rises to his feet immediately, upset at the disturbance. The girl, still shaking, crawls back, gradually standing as well, picking up her disc off the floor hesitantly.

He stares at the intruder, a man costumed much like himself, with a similar mask and those same characteristically orange markings. But instead of one disc, he has two; the lucky bastard. _Rinzler._ It hadn’t taken him long to realize that this guard was Clu’s favorite, and it filled him with what seemed to resemble jealousy.

But he’d been given the special privilege of being allowed to enter the games, so he couldn’t be too bitter.

Rinzler holds up a hand, sternly commanding him to stop. So he listens; it’s unwise to disobey Clu’s right-hand man. That was also a lesson he’d quickly learned, having been reprimanded and hit for it moments before he was allowed to gear up for the battle.

Rinzler purrs at him, as if he’s processing some thought he can’t quite say. And in return, there’s his own growling, a reply that’s equally ominous and menacing. He could speak if he wanted—both of them could—but it defeated the purpose, when sound alone was threatening enough. Sound communicated more efficiently. Using physical, blunt force would be ideal, but he had to wait until he was fully trained, to even think of challenging him on that front.

Between the mechanical purr and the growling hum, the girl stands some feet away, looking on as if in terror. But she says not a word, as if gravely upset. Her face is changing, slowly, to show more stress and fear.

When Clu appears on the platform with a graceful jump, both Rinzler and Sam promptly stand to attention. He waves to Rinzler, “You are dismissed,” a gesture that makes Sam’s mood brighten considerably. It wasn’t worth a whole lot, but every compliment from his master was significant enough to appreciate. And watching Rinzler walk away only seemed to prove, even if momentarily, his own importance over him. Because one man was still here beside Clu and he’d somehow earned that position. For this brief flash in time, he was the right-hand man for once.

The more he dwelled on that realization, the more amazing it felt. He was like a small child inside, wanting to jump for joy and run into his father’s arms. But instead he folded his arms, and stood solemnly, awaiting his orders.

“Both of you,” Clu nods to him and the girl, “Come with me.”

When the girl hesitates, he snaps at her, “Trust me. You want to cooperate.”

She gave Sam an alarmed look, but her face quickly turned serious as she fell in line, following Clu and Sam as they jumped down from the elevated stage, to make their way back inside.

-

“Kevin Flynn,” Clu addressed the aged man, as he sat on a black chair, shrouded in darkness, his entire posture depressed and low, his diminished spirit evident. Clu gives a slight wave, and lights turn on across the ceiling, illuminating the room in a soft orange glow. “Did you see what I’ve done to your boy?”

“There’s a better way to handle this, Clu,” the man sneers.

“Really,” he raises an eyebrow at him, before grinning a little, “but I quite like my way.” He comes a little closer, moving in to sit across from the man, smiling as he leans back, “I have your boy Sam, and the girl, what’s her name-”

“Quorra,” Flynn sighs, clasping his hands together.

“Yes.” He comments, “I was feeling merciful, so I didn’t let him kill her.”

“Ki-” he stops. His head jolts up, as he gives Clu a mean stare, his eyes piercing through him. He raises his voice, “Why would he kill her, Clu?”

Clu doesn’t answer; not immediately.

“Clu, answer me,” he demands.

Clu shrugs a little, throwing his hands up, as he seems oddly amused, “He’d even kill _you_ , if I asked him to.”

Flynn’s eyes grow wide. The air leaves his throat. His jaw clenches up. Before he realizes it, he starts to shake; a small tremble he contains by gripping his hands tightly together, putting pressure on his own knuckles to fend off the nervous energy. He manages to ask, in a low voice, “What have you done to him.”

“What was necessary,” he says, as he rises to his feet again. He beckons out loud, “Send him in!”

The door slides open. Footsteps, and three guards enter the room. Two, with visors that only cover their eyes. A third, with a complete mask, his face obscured.

Kevin Flynn watches, waiting, anxious and on edge.

Clu smiles gently, and nods. To that one, he instructs, “Show yourself.”

With a nod, and the mask opens up, collapsing back. And when Flynn sees the face there, he gasps in horror, his voice trembling, “Sam.”

Sam gives him a look, dead in the eyes. His face doesn’t respond at all, apart from a slight curiosity at hearing his name mentioned. He asks Clu, “This man… knows me?” with a slight glance in the man’s direction.

“Pay it no attention,” Clu smiles, with a wave. “For now, he is our captive.”

Sam nods, turning back to stare straight ahead. There’s no further reaction.

“Clu,” Flynn growls, his voice turning hoarse, “Sam! I am your fa-”

“Silence!” Clu yells, his voice firm.

“Sam-” the man tries again.

But when Sam turns to look at him, Clu quickly explains, “He’s mine now, Flynn.”

Flynn starts to shake his head, eyes glancing around wildly. “No- That’s not-” but his words are jumbled.

“Sam,” Clu instructs him, “Let’s show him the extent of your loyalty.”

“What,” Flynn tenses up. “What are you doing, Clu.”

Clu smiles gently, and invites Sam to come closer with a small beckoning of his hand. “Kneel,” he says.

And Sam responds, getting down onto his knees.

Clu pats a hand over his own crotch; his gloved fingers lightly fondle his own genitals through his suit, with a teasing motion as Sam watches the act intently, with a vague semblance of lust in his eyes. Clu murmurs a quiet, “Come on,” to him, and Sam doesn’t delay. With an unexpected hesitance, he moves forward, to sit in front of Clu, his face directly gazing forward. After a slight look up at Clu—and a responding nod from the man he deemed his father—he leaned in and pressed his mouth against the bulge between Clu’s legs, his lips pressing firmly to massage whatever he could reach. And from there he didn’t waste much time, even opening his mouth to extend his tongue and lick along the firm ridges of where he could feel the shape of Clu’s penis beneath the stretchy material.

He could feel his member becoming more pronounced, and protruding more as he began to massage it with his mouth, feeling both eager and stressed because he hated to do it this way. He hated for fabric to separate the man’s flesh from his touch… but still he continued, licking and teasing the area enough to soak Clu’s suit with his saliva.

Sam couldn’t help it; he reached one of his hands down to his own crotch, to fondle himself slowly as he continued to service Clu, just to help relieve the pressure building inside him, that slow ache that began.

Clu even groaned a little, as he wound a hand into Sam’s hair and pressed his face forward, urging him to lick and tease just a little harder. Sam continued to lick him, even venturing to chew on him slightly with his teeth, intentionally grazing the increasing stiff ridge of where he could feel the tip of his dick. He knew its shape, and he knew how to bring the man pleasure. So he began to suck and chew on that spot, inwardly cursing the fabric for being in the way, as he slowly continued to caress himself, to touch himself like it was second-nature.

“Please… stop this,” Flynn was finally able to speak. But his voice so quiet, that Clu acted like he hadn’t even heard it. Instead, he motioned for Sam to stop. And when Sam looked up at him in alarm, the man kneeled down himself, looking at Sam directly in the eyes. Sam even smiled a little, “Father,” and Clu smiled back, “Sam,” before he moved in to give him a kiss.

A kiss that was surprisingly intimate, a kiss between lovers as Sam eagerly opened his mouth, allowing Clu to slide his tongue inside. Sam even closed his eyes, and sighed in pleasure as Clu caressed his face gently, breaking the deeper kiss to deliver a series of more tender opens to his lips, as if to both savor their taste and tease him. In truth, he was driving the boy mad. Sam found it difficult to contain himself, as he took the initiative to move Clu into a deeper kiss, thrusting his own tongue between the man’s lips. Clu looked at him with some surprise, but the look Sam gave him was so desperate that he allowed it.

And while he continued to kiss him, Flynn stared in horror, unable to contain his shock at the sight of himself kissing his own son. Clu was noticeably younger than he’d been in years, but that didn’t make it less appalling. It didn’t disgust him any less.

He wanted to protest, but he didn’t even know what he could do. And as he watched their kisses slow to more gentle gestures and intimate, sincere caresses, he didn’t even know what to think. 

“What have you done to him,” he managed, at last. But his voice was weak, the voice of a broken man facing the onslaught of despair.

Clu broke away from Sam for a moment, telling Flynn, without even averting his eyes away from the beautifully desperate boy in front of him, “I fixed him. I gave him the purpose you never did.”

“Purpose?” Flynn asked, his eyes widening.

“Every man needs a purpose, Flynn,” Clu remarks. He gives Sam another light kiss, before pulling back to smile, as if admiring his creation, “I made him a complete being.” He even takes Sam’s hand and kisses it, as if he can’t contain his excitement at the revelation, “If I had a treasure like this… I would never let him out of my sight.”

Clu stands up, letting go of that hand as he turns to Flynn again, to look at him more directly. “But I’m willing to give him back, Flynn. Just for one simple request.”

Flynn tears his eyes away from Sam, to look at Clu with a moment, just a brief moment of hope. But he restrains himself from looking too eager; he knows Clu is just the kind of man to take advantage of his hope, the way he was prone to abusing loyalty and anything else that should remain sacred.

“Just give me your disc, Flynn,” Clu states.

“You _bastard_ ,” he growls, “This was your plan?”

“No,” he says gently, looking down at Sam and smiling as their eyes meet, “I do love Sam.” He quickly looks back at Flynn with a sudden boldness, “But the sacrifice is necessary.”

“How _dare_ you,” Flynn scolds him. “How can you claim to love him? You don’t even know him, Clu.”

“I know what you did,” Clu states calmly, his face falling neutral. He continues his statement with a remarkable earnestness, “That Sam would grow to be an extraordinary man.” He glances down at Sam again, and makes another hand gesture, beckoning him to rise to his feet. And as he does so, he surveys his body rudely, with a look of lust and pleasure that turns Flynn’s stomach, “And in this, you were absolutely right.”

“Clu, listen to me. What you think you know…”

“Just give me the disc,” Clu snaps at him. He raises his voice, frowning, “Or I’ll take your life in exchange. And he’ll stay with me forever.”

“I can get him out of the Grid,” Flynn mutters, almost to himself, “I’ll find a way-”

“Can you save a man from his own mind?” Clu muses. “If the brain is connected, the body won’t respond.” He runs a hand along Sam’s face, smiling a little as the boy tilts his head, leaning into his touch.

Flynn shakes his head; he hated to admit it, but that’s a possible reality he hadn’t even thought of.

Clu suddenly frowns with a surprising bitterness, and when he speaks again his voice shakes, alarming both Flynn and Sam especially, who looks at him with a saddened look, “Make your choice, Flynn. Before I make mine.”

But Flynn’s comment stuns him, “Do you want him?”

Clu visibly twitches, “What-”

“Do you want him,” he repeats. He bows his head, “I’ve made my mistakes in life, Clu. But I can find a way to make that happen.”

“But he’s your son,” Clu murmurs, in a harsh, faint tone.

For a moment, Sam pauses, looking at him quizzically.

“That he is,” Flynn acknowledges. “Give him back, and I’ll make one for you.”

Clu pauses, staring at him with a slowly sinking realization.

“I’ll make one just like him. Even I wouldn’t know the difference.”

“You would… for me,” Clu frowns. “But why would I trust you-”

“Because I made you in the image of an imperfect man,” Flynn smiles gently, “And I forgive you for my mistake.”

Clu expresses a deep sigh, as he’s obviously vexed by this new development. And yet…

“Just give him back the way he was,” Flynn comments. He pauses, “and the girl, too.”

“She’s safe,” Clu quickly informs. He gives Flynn a sideways glance, “Exactly the same?”

“Exactly,” Flynn nods.

Clu looks back at Sam, as he reaches behind him and pulls off his disc. The boy is startled, eyes searching wildly to see what he’s doing. “Let’s make a deal, Flynn.”

-

“Urghhhhh,” Sam groans, as he comes to. At first all he can feel is the smooth fabric of a cold couch, the slight texture of leather. He slides his hands across it, getting his bearings before opening his eyes completely.

White; the room was bathed in white light. White light, and ornate furniture. Glass and metal and- Oh, this place.

“Dad?” he calls out. His voice is more faint than he realized, but he accepts that as a symptom of tiredness. He just wishes he knew where the tiredness came from.

“Sam,” a small voice comments, from nearby. He knows that voice.

“Quorra,” he smiles at her, “Oh man, good to see you.” He sits up completely, stretching out his arms along the way. He whistles once, and acknowledges, “I feel like shit.”

“Like you need to shit?” she asks, looking at him with a puzzled expression.

“No, it’s a figure of speech-” he starts to explain, before he just shrugs and says, “Nevermind.” He asks, “Where’s Dad?”

A voice comes from down the hall, as the man appears, his footsteps illuminating the entryway floor, “Right here.”

“Where you been?” Sam’s asking, before he pauses, “Where have I been…” He frowns to himself.

“Is something wrong?” Quorra questions, leaning over him, her hands pressed against the edge of the couch.

“Nah, I just- I feel like I’m missing something…”

“Time,” Flynn acknowledges. “You had a bit of an episode.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s it…”

“Oh, and your father lost his disc,” Quorra informs him.

“What?” he questions in alarm, nearly jumping off the couch.

“It’s alright,” Flynn murmurs.

“Dad-”

“Trust me, son. I’ve got it covered.”

Quorra says nothing, but smiles in agreement. “But we should hurry.”

“Nah, no need for that,” Flynn murmurs.

“Why?” she asks with a puzzled expression, her lips at pause.

“Because Clu and I,” he shrugs, “We made an agreement.”

“But this wasn’t part of that deal,” Quorra frowns.

“Nah, sure it was,” he clarifies. “I told him he could keep that duplicate, so long as I kept my disc. You see,” he smiles a little, as he loosely crosses his arms, “I have a power he doesn’t. Only I can create _and_ destroy a program.”

“And without Sam Flynn-” Quorra murmurs with her eyes wide, as she starts to understand.

“He could never create _him_. And as long as he kept this guy,” he points slightly in Sam’s direction, “There was always the risk of him defecting as soon as he remembered his past.”

“He could have remembered?” Quorra asks faintly, pleasantly surprised.

“Yeah, it’d just take some time. And you don’t want a newly trained assassin to remember how much he hates you.”

“Especially when he’s your-”

“Yeah,” Flynn coughs uncomfortably, to quickly end that line of thought. “So the only way to keep him around was to have a copy he could keep.”

“But why did he want Sam?” Quorra asks.

“He meant what he said. All these years, he’s used my memories to create an image of Sam, and what he’d be like. And when he appeared… Well. Let’s say he matched what he expected.”

“But he paged Alan,” Quorra prompts him.

“Because he knew he’d tell Sam,” he shrugs. “That crazy bastard was onto something.”

“I see,” her eyes widen as she smiles a little. After some thought, she says hesitantly, “That’s… somewhat romantic.”

Flynn raises an eyebrow skeptically, “I wouldn’t call it that. But sure.”

Meanwhile, Sam’s sitting on the couch, immobile as he turns to look at his father. He raises his voice, as if he’s interrupting something private, “Can I please ask something.”

“Sure, son-”

“What the hell is going on?”

Quorra laughs.


End file.
